Virginia says I taught her to swim when she was five years old. She was Ginny then—tall and strong for her age, with the smooth-cheeked face of a cherub, not snub-nosed and splattered with freckles like mine. I stood tiptoe on my stubby legs at the three-foot mark, my arms stretched out to her. She danced on the deck in her two-piece navy-blue swimsuit wringing her hands, her round brown belly caving each time she sucked in air. “I can’t!” she cried. “Watch this,” I said. I stretched out into a starfish then arched backward into the water, and dived to the bottom of the pool. I was eight and a half that summer and swimming everywhere, even into the deep end, while Ginny played crocodile in the baby pool or sat on the steps of the big pool moping as I swam away from her. My fingers touching cement, I waved my toes at her then kicked to the surface, my lungs bursting with spent air. She was grinning now, bent over the water clutching her ropy thighs. Her pixie haircut was already drying in madman spikes, her swimsuit shriveling in the hot sun, but I was cool and comfortable, in water up to my chin.

I reached my arms to her again and shouted, “Jump, Ginny!” And this time she did. She splashed onto her knees and dogpaddled into my arms, like a Labrador puppy born to swim. “Take a big breath,” I said, grabbing her hand. I pulled her underwater and we kicked to the ladder holding hands. She came up laughing, blowing water from her nose, and was never afraid of the water again. The rest of the summer we were sister mermaids, swimming together all over the pool.*** Virginia is at my door again. I usher her into my studio—a room filled with soft sculpture and whimsical pieces I’ve made of fabric and feathers and cast-off remnants of my life. Virginia feels safe in my studio. We sit side by side on the slipcovered sofa and she apologizes.“I know you’re tired of me coming over,” she says.“No I’m not,” I say, and it’s true. I’m always glad to see her.“I told Phillip I was going to the clubhouse, but I don’t really have a match today.” She’s dressed for tennis in her team uniform: red skirt, striped shirt and sturdy court shoes laced tight. I admire her long, muscled limbs. She can whip a tennis ball across the court for hours wearing a silly grin and rarely breaking a sweat. But she’s not grinning now. Her hand is shaking as she searches for a Kleenex in her designer bag.“What’s the matter? Is it Phillip again?”“Yes.” She dabs her eyes and wipes her nose. “We had another fight last night—over nothing. I fell asleep watching T.V. and he just started yelling at me.” Her eyes dart like wild birds before they rest on mine. “He said he wants a divorce.” I remember that my ex-husband and I never talked about divorce until the marriage was near the end. “He shouldn’t say that if he doesn’t mean it. It’s not fair.”She snorts. “I don’t think he cares about fairness. He’s says I’m fat, I’m lazy, I’ve let myself go—”“I think you look damned good for your age.” Yes, her round belly has returned as a small middle-aged bulge, but she’s toned and still has that perfect face. “You work out almost every day. You take care of the house, cook his meals, do all the bookwork and errands. What more could he want?”“Hmm…” She furrows her brows in mock bewilderment. “A skinny twenty-year-old with a six figure income? That’s what he thinks he wants.”I roll my eyes. “That woman he was texting—or sexting—isn’t she in her thirties?”“Yeah, she’s thirty-five, but she’s younger than I am, and thinner. He was flirting with her at the clubhouse party Saturday night. He even sat with her at the bar. Can you believe it?” “I thought he called her a cheap slut. You said he was ignoring her texts.”Virginia shrugs dramatically. “Maybe they made up. I don’t know. Now he’s talking about divorce again.”“Is he planning to move out?” I say this as calmly as I can, not wanting her to know how much I wish he would. “He says he wants to, but he never does anything about it.… Maybe I should be the one to leave.”“Why don’t you?” Her eyes take flight again, flitting around the studio. “I don’t have a career like you do. How would I support myself? I’d have to move to an apartment and work at some minimum wage job.”This is a dodge. She knows I barely scrape by, month to month, while she and Phillip have investments in real estate and the stock market and don’t owe anything, not even a mortgage. “You could manage. You might not even have to work.” She’s shallow breathing now. Her belly caves. Her ribcage flares. “I can’t. I—I’m too old to start over.”“You deserve to be happy.” I smile and relax on the sofa to show her what I mean. I go where I want. I do as I please. I’m not afraid. She’s sweating, but I am cool and comfortable. She scowls and wraps her arms around her chest, moping. “If he would get over his midlife crisis—or whatever it is—and stop picking on me all the time, I would be happy.” “Maybe he will,” I say, stroking the feathered pillow between us, but inside my head I’m screaming, Come on, Ginny! Jump!